


rage against the dying of the light

by prouvairing



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, In The Flesh AU, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Reunions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1754201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairing/pseuds/prouvairing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being killed in a riot in 2009, Enjolras comes back home.</p>
<p>For Les Mis Zombie Week, the <i>In The Flesh</i> fusion no one asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. do not go gentle into that good night

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably make more sense if you're familiar with In The Flesh, but if you aren't, here's a blurb from [the Wikipedia page](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_the_Flesh_%28TV_series%29): "A medication was found to bring consciousness back to the undead, returning their minds to who they were before dying. The undead that were not killed by the militias were then rounded up and were given medication and rehabilitation by the government in a plan to reintroduce them to society. They are given contact lenses, cosmetics, and daily injections of medication to help them conceal their partially deceased status. They are officially referred to as survivors of Partially Deceased Syndrome (PDS), and pejoratively known as "rotters". Many are haunted by returning memories of the atrocities they committed while rabid."  
> I'm tentative on the rating, but T for zombies. Even though no real zombiestuff happens.  
> Many thanks to [Pasha](http://bunbunjolras.tumblr.com) for beta reading even though he doesn't like zombies <3 I owe you one, friend.

_Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,_  
 _And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,_  
 _Do not go gentle into that good night._  
  
 _Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight_  
 _Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,_  
 _Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

-Dylan Thomas-

* * *

 

Ever since he came back, Enjolras has been hyper-aware of his own body.

Aware of the air rushing through his lungs, and the sluggish blood in his veins, and his hands pale as death on the steering wheel.

And, of course, the bullet holes in his chest that will never heal.

He’s here, now. In the car, lingering. He hasn’t been known to hesitate before; he did not hesitate when he packed his meds and explanatory pamphlets, when he grabbed his father’s keys and stole the car, when he drove over to this house, hoping that at least this one thing had stayed the same.

It was a pretty big shot. When he’d left, he’d known he would have twenty-four hours at most before he needed another injection, and someone to administer it. Without it, he’d turn back into what he had been – a rabid rotter, uncomprehending and violent.

Nineteen hours later here he is – in front of Grantaire’s blue door, with the peeling paint and the wild unkempt grass, and Grantaire’s beat up jeep in the driveway.

That’s how he knows he hasn’t made this trip for nothing, that Grantaire is inside. And so, why is he hesitating?

It’s something about his parents’ faces when they’d first seen him, at the clinic, wide eyes and tight-lipped smiles, something about the large circles they’d walked around him, afraid to touch him.

And that was with the flesh-colored mousse and the blue contacts. The first time his mother had seen him without, she’d screamed.

And his parents are one thing – their relationship had been strained at best before his death, and suffered worse now, with the way they asked, _Can you at least pretend to eat?_ , which was far too similar to a much older question.

This, though – this is Grantaire.

There are memories of kissing Grantaire, and sleeping curled against his warm body, and his hand in Enjolras’ in the last moments, and Grantaire screaming after him as he died. There are memories of the warmth and devotion in Grantaire’s eyes when he looked at Enjolras.

So these are the questions: is this a good idea? Has Grantaire moved on? Will he ever see that look in his eyes again?

_What if he looks at me like my parents do?_

He looks at himself once in the rear-view mirror. He’s gone without pretences, or covers, and he looks like a ghost with white haunting eyes. He has promised to never conceal himself again.

Enjolras doesn’t allow himself any further hesitation: he grabs his bag and gets out of the car, slamming the door shut.

His hand shakes on the doorbell, which he doesn’t want to think about – his body isn’t supposed to be weak in this way, and so it’s almost certainly his emotions wreaking havoc, making him unsteady.

He sucks in a deep breath when the door creaks open, feels the burning rush of nerves wash over him again. Enjolras is so, so alive.

Grantaire is there, with his dark curls and the wan look of someone who hasn’t slept right, with his terrible blue eyes, which widen in shock. With his red mouth, which falls open and lets out a choked sound.

“Enjolras?” he whispers, and there’s wonder in his voice. Grantaire is drinking in his presence, and Enjolras’ chest immediately feels lighter.

“Hi,” he say, and attempts a half smile. “I’m back.”

Grantaire seems to break out of his stupor then, and steps forward to pull Enjolras into his arms, and just like that, Enjolras is home.

Grantaire is warm, warmer than he remembered and Enjolras doesn’t know whether it’s his mind playing tricks, or the fact that he is much colder by contrast, now.

It doesn’t matter – he is here, and Grantaire is wrapped around him, and he did not hesitate and he did not flinch, and he smells exactly the same as ever.

“Oh _God_ , Enjolras,” Grantaire is saying, right against Enjolras’ curls.  Keeps murmuring his name, pressing it there just by his ear, _Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras._

“I’m here,” Enjolras says, and he hasn’t felt this since he woke up in his coffin and rose from the earth. Even less since he came back to himself and remembered all the horrible things he’d done. “I’m here.”

Grantaire holds him tighter, and Enjolras curls his fingers in the back of his shirt, nose buried in his neck, and relief is so, so sweet. He doesn’t let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem is the one on Amy's tombstone in the show, _Do not go gentle into that good night_ , and it's honestly one of my faves, so I couldn't help it.


	2. wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was only supposed to be a short oneshot, _why_

Grantaire won’t tell you that he doesn’t dream of rabids sometimes. He does, like any other person who’s had to walk abandoned grocery stores, gun in hand, and has scoured whispering woods late at night, seen them shuffle out of the shadows like a nightmare made dead flesh.

He dreams about the first man he put down – with a kitchen knife, right through the skull – and every one he killed after. He dreams of their outstretched hands. When he wakes up, guilt twists his stomach and he ends up emptying its contents in the bin that’s a permanent fixture right beside his bed.

Some say they had no choice, that it was all about survival, and Grantaire believes it sometimes. They didn’t know, then, that salvation was even possible.

It’s never made Grantaire feel like any less of a murderer, especially in hindsight.

When he doesn’t want to think about it, he thinks about Jehan’s cry of relief when he’d pried one of the rabids off of him, and his bony frame in Grantaire’s arms – warm and shaking and alive.

He thought that maybe it was about survival, but not his own. It was about his friends, taking up arms because they didn’t trust the government to come save them – they never had before, and they wouldn’t start now.

But it wasn’t just that – see, Grantaire’s world had ended long ago, and it was ironic that he’d thought he would let himself go, before the Rising had come around. Turns out, there had been something in him still kicking.

But the truth of the matter is that if Grantaire sometimes dreams of the undead, it isn’t even nearly comparable to the times when he dreams of Enjolras.

It’s a blessing, really, that he doesn’t often dream of the eight bullets that killed him, of his blood on the concrete. He hadn’t seen that – though his mind was pretty good at making it up for him – he was too busy being shot too. One bullet, in his shoulder, then he’d hit his head on the ground and passed out.

No, when he dreams, he dreams of Enjolras’ hand slipping from his.

*

_He sits in Combeferre’s kitchen, staring at a bunch of government-issued pamphlets. A quite unnerving picture of a smiling undead girl, all teeth and white eyes, stares at him above the optimistic title, ‘_ Understanding Partially Deceased Syndrome _.’_

_“Is this for real?” he asks, because it’s like the world has been turned on its head again. Grantaire is pretty damn tired of it happening. You’d think once per lifetime would be enough._

_Combeferre runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Absolutely,” he says. He sits, sleeves pushed up and exposing his tattoos, fingers linked in front of his face. “They’re training people right now, you can actually specialise in treating PDS patients. Three week courses, even, unless you undergo full training at the clinic in Norfolk.”_

_Grantaire is silent, thumbing the edge of the pamphlet. He flips it open warily, reading through the cheery introduction. “It says they’ll revert back to their untreated state if they miss a dose.”_

_Combeferre nods. “It’s also quite complicated to administer on one’s own – the injection is between the first and second vertebrae.”_

_Grantaire buries his face in his hands and rubs at his eyes. Stars spark behind is vision and nothing makes sense. There’s a nagging thought at the back of his head that he does not want to uncover._

_“The HVF is going to throw a fit, you know?” he says, instead, because that’s another thought. “What’s our stance?”_

_“I have talked to Courfeyrac about it,” Combeferre says, because of course he has._ _Courfeyrac had only just left for patrol, when Grantaire had received Combeferre’s call. Even now that their triumvirate has been reduced to two, Combeferre and Courfeyrac make most decision between themselves, before opening them up to the rest of ABC. “We’re agreed that we’re pro-PDS,” Combeferre continues. “The rest of you can decide where you stand, but I hope you’ll be with us.”_

_They aren’t on good terms, ABC and the Human Volunteer Force. For one, the higher-ups in the HVF regularly spew pseudo-Christian nonsense, and ABC started out as a queer liberation group. They know exactly how that type of rhetoric goes._

_These days, their undead body counts match._

_Grantaire doesn’t like to think much about the times before, when you could find Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac going over their notes and facilitating group discussion at their weekly meetings. When they scheduled banner-making time for upcoming marches and inevitably ended up having to call Grantaire and Feuilly in._

_He doesn’t like to think about the last few days before the 2009 riot, which stole Enjolras from Grantaire’s bed early in the morning and lit up his eyes with righteous fervour._

_“Aren’t they dangerous? These… PDS sufferers?” Grantaire asks, out of a hard-dying instinct to seek holes in their arguments so that they can be mended._

_Combeferre’s lip curls in thought. “It’s complicated. There’s always the remote chance that they could revert back, but see, I met a girl at the clinic, today. She was just about to go home to her family. She was nervous, you know, about them finding her different. I made her laugh. The HVF keeps calling them monsters and murderers, but R, they’re just_ people _.” His dark eyes behind the glasses are intense, and remind Grantaire of the thin nineteen-year-old boy who had been able to shut down a bigot’s arguments in ten words or less. “They’re people with a condition and the HVF are being ableist fucks.”_

_Grantaire smiles a pale, half-smile. “Alright then. Fuck the police, etcetera. Not like we’re new to this liberation thing.”_

_All of the things Grantaire doesn’t want to think about hang tense between them. Grantaire made coffee at some point, and promptly forgot about it, and he takes this chance to hide behind the rim of his mug. It’s gone cold._

_“Grantaire,” Combeferre says. “You know this means he might – “_

_The mug clinks loudly on the table top. “No,” Grantaire says._

_Combeferre is still. He is probably one of two people that want this quite as much as Grantaire._

_“He could be.”_

_Grantaire gets up, his fingers claw at the leather of his jacket and he does not look at Combeferre. “Well, he is not,” he says._

_Hope is too dangerous a mistake, and Grantaire cannot afford to make one now._

*

Enjolras is sitting in _his_ kitchen, tugging at a lock of hair nervously.

It’s a gesture so familiar it makes Grantaire want to cry, and laugh, and throw something.

_Enjolras is in his kitchen_ , and he is unnaturally pale. His lips look bruised, his eyes are milky white and somehow they make his long blond lashes even more striking. He looks like a miracle.

Grantaire had held him for a lifetime, at the door, and would have been worried about overwhelming Enjolras if not for the fingers holding onto his shirt like claws, and the iron grip Enjolras’ arms had around him.

It had taken all of his willpower to let him go, pull back and usher him inside. Even these days, with at least half a dozen undead walking around the village, it isn’t safe.

Grantaire hasn’t let go of him, not really. They stood by each other in front of the closed door, for a while, just drinking in each other’s presence, not saying much of anything, before Grantaire had led him by the hand to the kitchen.

Not letting go, not yet.

“Do you mind –” he says, fingers still playing with Enjolras’. They’re smooth and thin like they used to be, but there is no warmth left in them. “Do you mind if I make myself coffee? I just –” He waves a vague hand towards the coffee machine, an unspecified gesture of need.

Enjolras blinks and frowns, looking almost confused. It is strange, to take in all of his more minute expression, but Grantaire cannot help it. He did not think he’d ever see them again. “Of course. Why ask?”

Grantaire shrugs and something clenches in him. “Seems kind of rude, doesn’t it? To drink while you can’t?”

A not-quite-smile curls Enjolras’ blue lips. “Hardly. You’re gonna have to eat, won’t you? As long as…” He takes a breath here, purses his lips, then continues, “As long as you don’t ask me to pretend to.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows shoot up, and he is almost outraged. What sort of place has Enjolras been in, until now? “Jesus, no. Why would you ever?”

Enjolras doesn’t meet his eye, and so Grantaire sits back down, and draws his thin hand in to kiss. It makes Enjolras look up, and the steady stare of his pinprick pupils is only slightly unnerving. Grantaire wills himself steady, under it. “We don’t have to pretend, Enjolras.”

Enjolras’ hand slips free, comes to settle on Grantaire’s jaw, easy as ever. His smile is almost real, now. “Thank you,” he whispers.

For the first time today, Grantaire lets him go to put the coffee on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright some more fluff is gonna be posted next chapter, and maybe Enjolras meeting the rest of les Amis, who knows. This would have been way more efficient if posted all together, but it's sort of an overgrown monster, so here you go.


	3. Bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has become a damn monster I swear to you guys. I've got plans for another chapter (as well as a couple spin-offs if I manage) but it might not come for a long time, since I want to try and finish some other things first (I might be a little excited because Camp NaNoWriMo is over and I have finally time to focus on different projects!)

Grantaire already drained a cup of coffee and is getting ready to start on a second. Enjolras has been uncharacteristically silent throughout, while Grantaire – never one to bear awkward silence gracefully – babbled on about how excited Combeferre and Courfeyrac would be to finally see him again, _and actually they should really call as soon as possible._

Enjolras nods thoughtfully and holds his right hand with his left, a single wrinkle between his brows. “R?” he asks, finally, interrupting Grantaire’s monologue. He bites his tongue mid-word, and Enjolras takes a breath before continuing, “What happened to everyone?”

Grantaire stands still in the kitchen, hands curled together, and thinks, _I should have known this was coming._

And really, he should have, it’s almost preposterous that he hadn’t known. He says, “Do you want the long version, or the short?”

For a second, irritation flares up in Enjolras’ eyes and it’s interesting to see. Blue or white, it still lights up his face in the same way – the lilt to his words is the same too. That frustrated, _Grantaire, be serious!,_ underneath in his voice.

“I just want to know who’s left,” he says, and there’s a new trace of grief there, too. It’s altogether unbearable, and Grantaire has to put his coffee down to hold his hands out to Enjolras again.

They tread together tightly, hold on once again, and Grantaire feels some long-held tension snap in his shoulders. Finally.

“When the protest went south, three of us were shot,” Grantaire says evenly. “You, Joly and me. You – ”

And damn it, he thought he could say it, should be able to, after so long, and yet. Whatever happened in the meantime, and whatever’s happening now, the protest, what happened to Enjolras, will never stop hurting.

The tight hold on his fingers carries him through.

“You got most of it. You – you bled out before they could get to you. Joly made it as far as the hospital, but they couldn’t help him either.” He hears Enjolras’ gasp there and looks up to see his eyes screwed shut, and he realizes this is new grief for him. Grantaire hurries to finish, “He’s back, though. Showed up about a month ago. He’s PDS, of course, but he’s with us.”

Enjolras lets out a shaky breath, and asks, “Anyone else?”

“Bahorel is still gone,” Grantaire says, barrelling through as if this doesn’t still feel like a fresh wound. “Not like us, though, he disappeared during the protest. We didn’t hear anything about him for a week or so, after. I was in the hospital, and you guys were gone, and everyone was out of their minds, but Jehan – Jehan especially. Jehan _most._ ”

He doesn’t want to think about those days, and the _drip-drip_ of the IV and the _beep-beep_ of the LCD and every part of him aching in a way the morphine could do nothing for.

And Jehan – sitting on the uncomfortable chair at his bedside, eyes too big for his face and cold like glass. He doesn’t want to think about that either.

They hadn’t been dating long, Jehan and Bahorel, had just turned to that from what had been a friends-with-benefits deal that wasn’t meant to last.

And of course, when they’d managed to get their shit together, all of this had happened.

“Then they told us he was dead,” Grantaire forced himself to go on. “It’s not quite clear what happened, but he got beaten up pretty badly. His mother had to identify him and it wasn’t – it wasn’t good.”

He doesn’t talk about police brutality, doesn’t even say the words, but he knows by the particular bitter frown that pulls at Enjolras’ mouth that he’s thinking the same.

“And he isn’t back?” Enjolras asks, nothing like hope in his voice.

“No,” Grantaire says. “We don’t know if he even rose.”

That he joined the Rising is the most likely option of course, and Jehan had been wild with the possibilities for a while there. That he hadn’t risen, that he had and was in Norfolk now. That he had and he’d been shot by the HVF. That had and was wandering, aimless, at that very moment – that he was just waiting to be found, and it was just as likely that it would be by someone sympathetic than by some trigger-happy HVF vet.

Grantaire hadn’t been able to listen to him. Wondering “ _what if Bahorel_ …” would have hurt all by itself without the echo of “ _what if Enjolras…_ ” underneath.

“Okay,” Enjolras says, taking a deep breath he does not need. “Okay.”

And there is nothing more to say to that, so Grantaire merely leans close. His kiss lands on Enjolras’ forehead.

He moves back to put his mug in the sink, pretending not to see the way Enjolras’ mouth is still straining downwards.

Grantaire is struck still, however, when Enjolras draws a shuddering sigh and says, “I am sorry.”

He doesn’t answer, for a second. He just puts the mug to soak, wipes his hands on the towel by the sink and takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras repeats, and his white eyes burn holes in Grantaire’s back.

When Grantaire finally looks at him, Enjolras is wearing that stony mask that used to be impenetrable to him. But Grantaire knows, now, has known for years – he can see the cracks in the marble.

He doesn’t quite know what to say, so he settles for the truth.

“I was angry with you, you know,” he says.

It was a bitter, tearful sort of anger, a _how dare you leave, how dare you do this to us._ It got mixed up with his anger at himself, and how he hadn’t been able to do even this one thing right, hadn’t even been able to follow Enjolras into death.

Enjolras doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, just _looks._ His mouth is a tight line, his brow furrowed. That’s what apology looks like, on him.

“I was angry with you,” Grantaire says. Then looks up, meets Enjolras’ eyes. “But not anymore.”

He sees Enjolras’ shoulders sag, as he lets out the breath he was holding. He nods, and Grantaire steps close once more.

“No matter what you’re thinking right now,” he says. “What happened at the protest wasn’t your fault.”

Enjolras frowns again, which is unacceptable. He goes as far as saying, “But – ”

Grantaire stops him. “You weren’t the only one planning. And it was everyone’s choice to be there.”

“Yours too?” Enjolras asks, and for once the tiny smile at the corner of his lip is almost playful. Years ago, he’d had asked this, too, almost in desperation. Today, he knows the answer – he just wants to hear it again.

Grantaire gives it to him, of course. “I chose you,” he says. “I still do.”

He can tell the second part startles him. Enjolras smiles, and ducks his head, his breath is unsteady. “Good,” he says. “That’s good.”

Grantaire’s hands, of their own accord, are drawn to Enjolras’ hair. He twists his between his fingers, rubs gentle circles in his scalp, and a quiet whine escape Enjolras’ lips.

For a moment it’s like before – until Enjolras tilts his face up, and looks at Grantaire with those eyes.

It doesn’t matter. Not when Enjolras leans into his touch, looks at Grantaire through his pale lashes.

He says, “You said you were shot.”

Grantaire nods, and Enjolras’ face twists, pained. “Where?” he asks.

So Grantaire steps back, followed suit by Enjolras, who stands. He tugs at his shirt until it uncovers his shoulder, and the puckered scar there.

Enjolras’ breath catches, and a thin line forms between his eyebrows. His thin fingers hover. “Can I…?” he asks.

Grantaire doesn’t answer, but shuffles closer, until Enjolras’ fingers are tracing the marred skin of his shoulder. He does it like he does everything – severe and intense, deep in thought.

When he looks up again, there are no tears in his eyes, but something like the promise of them. He is very close, and his breath fans Grantaire’s cheek.

“Don’t,” Grantaire says, because he doesn’t think he could stand another apology from Enjolras. Instead he tilts his head so that their foreheads are pressed together, their noses brushing.

They stand like that, sharing breath, until Enjolras looks at him and says, “I’d have understood if you had moved on, you know?” His voice doesn’t break, but does not rise above a whisper. “It’s been five years.”

Grantaire cracks, then. He growls, “Shut up. Do you think it’s easy to get over you?”

Enjolras smiles a small, sad smile, and it’s more than Grantaire can handle. They are so close, and not close enough, and the last of the space between them is unbearable. So Grantaire kisses him.

Enjolras melts against him like he’s been waiting just for this. They press against each other, and the world finally slots back into place. Enjolras’ hips strike the kitchen table behind him and lets out a soft, almost surprised gasp.

It goes to Grantaire’s head – Enjolras’ mouth and his fingers sliding into his hair. He whimpers and traces the curve of Enjolras’ back with his hands, and it’s at once too much and not enough.

He cannot stop and think about how much he’s missed this – the tiny sounds Enjolras makes, and the taste of his mouth, and the way he feels pressed against him. If he does, he might break down.

So he gets lost in kissing Enjolras until he has to breathe again – and even then he doesn’t move very far. He trails kisses along his jaw, his neck. He rests there, nose pressed into it, smelling Enjolras’ shampoo and laundry detergent.

Enjolras’ arms loop around his shoulders, cradle him as close as he can. He presses lips to Grantaire’s curls and murmurs gentle nothings against them.

“It’s not gonna be the same,” he says, very quietly. “I’m not gonna be the same.”

And Grantaire, whose world has been muted sounds, muted colours until this moment, laughs.

“I don’t care,” he says, almost wild. “Fuck, I don’t care. You’re _here_ Enjolras.”

He moves away from Enjolras’ neck, crowds close again, speaks in the tiny space between their mouths. “I lost you,” he says, and cannot keep his voice from breaking. “You were _lost._ ”

Enjolras tightens his grip on him, something almost pleading in his eyes. Grantaire doesn’t stop. “And now I have you back and everything else – everything else comes after. I don’t care. I don’t give a _damn._ Things have changed, that's fine. So long as you’re here again.”

And Enjolras laughs, finally. It’s watery and bright and his smile lights him up just like it used to. “I’m here,” he says, again, like he had at the door. “I’m here.”

They laugh and cling to each other and ignore the way Grantaire’s shoulder becomes wet when Enjolras presses his face to it, to the wounds that could’ve killed him but didn’t.

“I’m not going again,” Enjolras says.

“Good,” Grantaire replies. There is nothing left to say, after that, and there is no space left between them at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, if/when I make it, should be Enjolras finally reuniting with everyone else. Meanwhile you can come yell at me on [tumblr](http://seagreeneyes.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Poem is the one on Amy's tombstone in the show, _Do not go gentle into that good night_ , and it's honestly one of my faves, so I couldn't help it.


End file.
